Hope
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Gokudera is grateful for the silence, in the sort of vague unspoken way he is always grateful to Yamamoto for his tolerance of his own less-than-convenient moods." Gokudera and Yamamoto catch back up after their younger selves return to the past.


Gokudera doesn't think to speak until they're over halfway home.

He has a lot on his mind. There's relief, first and foremost, gratitude for a second chance at redemption he never expected to have. He's pretty sure he's nearly out of those by now; he's had more chances than anyone deserves to have, in one lifetime. But try as he might to look on the bright side, he's always been a pessimist at heart, and there's an inner voice - quiet, dulled from years of disuse but present all the same - that is crying out _you were left out_ , is saying _they didn't trust you_ , is insisting _they didn't_ want _you_. It takes all he has just to grit his teeth and bow his head and push back with all the years of experience to the contrary without worrying about anything else.

Yamamoto doesn't say anything either. Gokudera doesn't know if it's because the other is facing down his own thoughts, or if it's just that his sometimes startling intuition is keeping him quiet to leave Gokudera to his own; either way, he's grateful to it, in the sort of vague unspoken way he is always grateful to Yamamoto for his tolerance of Gokudera's less-than-convenient moods. And the company is a relief, the sound of his footsteps not-quite-in-time with Gokudera's own a way to push back the aching hurt of the whispers at the back of his head.

Maybe it's thinking about that instead of the situation itself that begs the connection. Maybe it's the teenage insecurities tearing out of the ever-shallow grave they have in Gokudera's head, echoes of the past hissing of competition and threat instead of companionship and support. It doesn't really matter. The idea presents itself, anyway, leaping into existence fully-formed between the space of one heartbeat and the next, and the shock of it is enough to stop Gokudera's footsteps dead on the sidewalk.

Yamamoto makes it another step and a half before he stumbles his forward motion into stillness. He turns immediately, eyes gone wide with innocent confusion, but Gokudera doesn't wait for the question he can sense forming on Yamamoto's lips.

"Did you know?" It's too fast, too loud, and this isn't what Gokudera wanted to say but it's spilling out of his throat like he's fourteen again, lost and grabbing desperately at a place, _any_ place, to call his own. There's fear prickling in his veins, terror more than anger, and when he says, "Takeshi, _tell me you didn't know_ " it's a plea, anxiety spiking high and tense in his throat.

Yamamoto blinks, his expression clearing out of confusion, and Gokudera knows as soon as he sees the softness settle into familiar gold eyes. Yamamoto's never been good at keeping secrets from him, has never even tried except for birthdays and anniversaries, and there's nothing but sympathetic affection in his gaze now.

"I didn't know," he says, immediately, echoing back Gokudera's words, and Gokudera lets out a shaky breath as Yamamoto steps back over the gap between them. Dark-coated shoulders cut between Gokudera and the glow of the streetlight and he ducks his head, takes a long breath and lets it rush out in a sigh of relief as Yamamoto keeps talking. "I had no idea what Tsuna had planned, I thought-" A pause, heavy with the things Gokudera doesn't even want to think about, now. Regret. Failure. _Loss_ , sour and lingering bitter even now that it's been undone.

There's a hand at his shoulder, weight pressing in against the fabric. Gokudera shuts his eyes, breathes in the smell of Yamamoto's jacket - forest-cool, crushed pine needles and the cool of water, the faintest suggestion of oil slick underneath. The fingers tighten against his shoulder, press in hard with unusual force.

"I'm glad you're okay," Yamamoto says, his voice dipping low and trembling like he's at the epicenter of an earthquake Gokudera can't feel. It's enough to bring Gokudera's head up, to snap his attention into place on Yamamoto's expression, the strange crease of tension in his forehead and the way his mouth is tight and anxious at the corners. Gokudera can feel gravity give way, his stomach dropping into the freefall of cold panic, and he reaches out, seizes his fingers too-tight against the front of Yamamoto's coat with the old habit all the expensive suits in the world can't completely break him of.

"Takeshi." Rough, grating raw over his throat. He narrowly resists the urge to shake Yamamoto forward by his coat. "What's wrong?"

Yamamoto shakes his head, the tension at his mouth giving way to a burst of laughter as sincere as Yamamoto always sounds, warm and curling out to fill the space around them in spite of the shadow still clinging to his eyes. "Nothing." He shuffles in closer, fits his feet in line with Gokudera's and his hand at Gokudera's waist, and when he sighs it ruffles through silver hair like a touch. "Everything's okay, now."

"Now?" Gokudera asks, but he eases off some of the tension locking his fingers in place at Yamamoto's jacket. "You never make any sense. What are you talking about?"

"I thought you-" Yamamoto starts, stops. Gokudera can hear the tension in his throat when he takes a breath and eases it out slow, like he's trying to catch back a sob. "I'm so glad you're okay." Another inhale, a little easier this time. "When I saw you from the past I panicked, a little."

"You saw me from the past?" Gokudera repeats back.

"Yeah." Yamamoto tips in, his mouth brushing Gokudera's forehead for a heartbeat of time. "Tsuna too. I guess I didn't switch for a day or two after you did."

"Jesus." Gokudera blinks, barks a laugh. "You were around me as a fourteen-year-old for two days? Fuck, I'm so sorry, that must have been awful."

He can feel Yamamoto's faint chuckle as much as hear it. "No, you were perfect."

"You're delusional," Gokudera declares, not without fondness. "Blinded by love."

"Mm, yeah." Yamamoto is smiling, now, Gokudera can hear it in the hum on his words. It's only for a moment; then Yamamoto takes a breath, like he's inhaling the dark around them, and when he speaks again he's somber once more. "I thought it had to be the bazooka, somehow. But you didn't switch back, and I didn't know-" There's a stutter in his voice, his hand slides sideways off Gokudera's hip to press against his spine, and for another moment there's an almost-kiss against Gokudera's forehead, this one shaky with relief.

"Idiot," Gokudera growls against Yamamoto's jacket. The word is as much for him as for Yamamoto, starburst guilt in his chest that he caught himself in his own looping inner monologue and didn't notice the strain in Yamamoto's shoulders, didn't ask about the shadow of past-tense fright he can feel bleeding out of the other with every shared breath between them. "You _have_ to be optimistic, there's only room for so much cynicism between us."

That gets a laugh, as he knew it would. When Yamamoto speaks again he sounds nearly normal, even if he's not letting his hold on Gokudera loosen. "I was. I hoped that you were okay the entire time."

"Sounds helpful," Gokudera deadpans.

There's a huff at his hair, amusement and affection rolled into one. "You're here now, right?"

"God," Gokudera groans, lets his hold on Yamamoto's jacket go so he can land a gentle punch against the dark of the lapel. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Sure," Yamamoto says, agreement so fast Gokudera suspects he's not listening at all. "Hayato?"

Gokudera turns his head up. Yamamoto is smiling at him, the soft smile that hasn't changed in all the years they've known each other, the one that lights up his eyes and eases the adult lines of his face into something gentle and as young-love tender as when they were in junior high. Gokudera can't fight it now any better than he could then; the only thing to do is to reach up to brace his fingers against the collar of Yamamoto's jacket, rock up onto the balls of his feet, and press his mouth against the aching sweet of Yamamoto's mouth.

By the time he pulls away, there's no tension left in Yamamoto's expression at all.


End file.
